Even though he’s been dead for 40 years, nobody does naughtiness quite like Coward, England’s legendary bad boy of the bon mot. Cyrus, for all her brazen, lip-lolling trampiness, could learn a thing or two from a master of the scandalous inference. I think we’d all be happier if she adapted Coward’s philosophy toward sex. A suggestive word or two, coupled with an arched eyebrow and a just-right pause, is ultimately much more of an aphrodisiac than letting it all hang out, with or without a wrecking ball.

Director Art Manke and his sharp cast know how to get the most out of Coward’s tart, understated humor without milking it. Though this production’s cast has changed substantially since its debut earlier this year at the Pasadena Playhouse, it still seems as well-oiled as a long-running repertory piece.

The action takes place in the tastefully appointed London flat of Fred and Julia Sterroll (Mike Ryan and Colette Kilroy), an upper-class couple settling into the middle years of their unexceptional marriage. Though they profess to be in love, their union is showing signs of ho-hum-ness.

Fred reads his morning paper and barely acknowledges Julia as he prepares to golf with his longtime pal and neighbor, Willy Banbury (Andrew Barnicle). There’s a lot of unconvincing talk about how a relationship without passion is the normal state of things after the romance fades.

Willy’s wife Jane (Katie MacNichol) joins Julia after their men departs for the links, an overnight journey that leaves the girls to their own devices for a dangerously long while. Both women have been contacted by a lover they once shared before their marriages, a Frenchman named Maurice Duclos (J. Paul Boehmer); the very mention of his name can send Julia and Jane into hormone-stoked swooning.

Waiting for word from Maurice, the women indulge in a bottle of champagne and other temptations over dinner. As they get drunk, the emotional temperature of the room heats up dramatically and quarrelling ensues. Hovering around their demise is a Cockney maid, Saunders (Mary-Pat Green), who’s a master of French, singing, piano playing and a hundred other skills when she’s not dusting and pouring tea. She is one of the most hilarious supporting roles Coward ever created.

The extended drunk scene is Coward at his best. It’s hard to believe the playwright penned this near-masterpiece when he was in his mid 20s. It’s pure pleasure, especially for an American audience, to watch two class-conscious and decorous British women reduced to a couple of accident-prone harpies who gradually lose all their faculties, including the ability to stand.

The rest of the play revolves around a series of misunderstandings after Jane lurches drunkenly out Julia’s door, possibly headed for a rendezvous with Duclos. When the husbands return – suffering, like their spouses, from the consequences of an evening of drunken bickering – things go from bad to worse.

Ironically, everything is set right by the amorous Frenchman. Though his command of English is by no means solid, he serves the role of counselor, restoring normal relations between the men, the women and the couples. It’s only after Duclos has gone that Fred and Willy realize he managed to take both their wives upstairs to a flat he has recently rented in the same building. The suddenly stricken look on men’s faces as the lights fade says it all: What the heck is going on?

Manke is no stranger to Coward – he has directed seven of the master’s plays – and his feel for the playwright’s keen sense of timing is impeccable. A lot of Coward’s humor happens under and between the lines, and Manke knows where all the best hidden laughs reside.

This script belongs to the women, and they dominate as they’re supposed to. As Julia, Kilroy (who, along with Barnicle and Boehmer, is new to the production) plays the stiffer of the two wives, and her depiction of crumbling decorum is spot on. As Jane, MacNichol makes the most of some great moments of silent comedy – watch for her drunken attempt to apply lipstick. The two performers play expertly off one another as well.

The men are stock characters, rendered with the shorthand clichés of the British class system. Barnicle and Ryan play them to a stuffed-shirt “T.”

Green’s Cockney maid is a reliable scene stealer in a role deployed cleverly by the playwright to provide tonal contrast. Boehmer has a similar character as a Frenchman who’s straight from Central Casting. He plays the Gallic charmer like Pepé Le Pew with even more testosterone, and the results are over the top but amusing.

Tom Buderwitz provides a note-perfect set that’s the picture of comfortable if suffocating British upper-class taste, circa 1925. Everyone looks terrific in David L. Mickelsen’s costumes, particularly the women when they dress up in anticipation of the Frenchman’s arrival.

“Fallen Angels” fell out of fashion for a few years because of a production-rights dispute. It’s nice to see it back in circulation – a half-forgotten Coward vehicle that’s a worthy alternative to his more universally known masterpieces. If only Miley could make it down to Laguna for an evening!

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